Redemptionis of the Infernus (Series)
by DeathsLights
Summary: Sherlock's eyes snap open and a biting retort is edging out of his mouth, but it fails to come out as he sees the face of his ariolus, more accurately his ariolus's choice in clothing. Well from what he make out, his ariolus has a horrendous fashion sense and apparently a partiality for ugly jumpers(AU canon divergence/magical realism/dream sharing/eventually Johnlock)Inside A/N.
1. Chapter 1

It has been a very many months since I have posted anything mainly due to disheartened spirits and a bad case of writer's block and um I just decided you know what lets do this to get rid of the weird oppression so this was born as a result. I've wanted to mess around with Magic Realism so I tried.

Update: January 13, 2014 I have acquired the lovely and very efficient beta writeswithfeatherquills! So this is now betaed and I would like to thank her for doing this so carefully because damn! I missed a lot of mistakes, I am rather ashamed by it!

**Summary: **

Anomalies exist. They are a matter of nature and because of their scarcity, the more rarer. A certain percentage that does not belong, that stands out, but to be without a ariolus is to be an outcast, an outcast feared and repulsed by everyone. But for Sherlock being an anomaly is something of pride, something he wears with valor. He is one of the infernus. He does not need anyone, not a friend, not a partner, and definitely not a ariolus.

That is what he imprints over his sealed and barricaded heart.

**Notes about the universe:**

Dream sharing is established and part of the norm and the ariolus are everyone's one personal link to the dream world and are much more; are partners, lifemates, companions, and soulmates. They are called many names but still to the tongue a meaning comes too short for they are those who know the darkest recesses of your mind and heart and venture in without fear. To be without one is to be the damned, the infernus the darkest and most vile of the world.

Tranlastion from Latin to English:

Ariolus = Seer or diviner  
>Infernus= the damned (there are more translations but for the story I used the meaning of damned)<p>

Also this is a Johnlock story! It will be slow build so it will take time to reach slashness but it shall come!

I'm still in the market for a britprick? Are you interested please reply.

That was really damn long o_o without a further notice, please enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Board and Seal Me Up<strong>

Ancestral ornaments, and the coats of his family crests on banners and shields of knights from eras long passed, and family portraits surround him, dignified and poised with an air of royalty about them. The polished metal surfaces gleam and glint so that they reflect the ceiling and lights. The arched windows have the curtains drawn so the sun warms the air, and the windows are slightly cracked so the spring air drifts through, and with it, the scent of the blooming gardens around the estate. He can pick out each scent, witch hazel, camellia, iris reticulata, forsythia, scilla, anemone, Chinese hellebore, siebold primrose, leopard's bane, and trilliums. He is still trying to figure out all the scientific classifications‒so far he knows 35 out of the 80 flowers that bloom around the grounds. As the days warm and spring passes, more scents will mingle and the bees will be out.

Sherlock is sitting by his mummy's feet reading one of Mycroft's old science textbooks when mummy uses the words 'unique', 'special', and 'different' to describe him. Personally, he would have preferred exceptional, outstanding or brilliant, but its mummy so he lets it go and does not put up too much of a fuss.

He is well aware that he is not like everyone else, but that it's not something that brings him misery or sadness. Why would he want to be dull? Mummy's sad smile is something he did not understand, why was she not happy that he was something more, something distinguished? When he had questioned her, her smile had dimmed. She had pressed an extra long kiss to his forehead, before reminding him of his mould samples in the basement that needed attention and sending him on his way. And he had forgotten so consumed with his case, and the growth rate of mould in different environments that he did not dwell on what mummy had said.

Well, not until Mycroft had returned from boarding school for the holidays.

And only because Mycroft had an annoying habit of pestering him about what he had done in his absence, about what he was up to. His brother was nosy, and liked to stick his sugar-coated fingers into everything, so it was better to get it out of the way so he could focus on more important and interesting matters. He brings it up to keep Mycroft from being annoying and pushy really.

"Because Sherlock, she sees the difficulty ahead in life for you."

"Good then. Easy is boring." The mass of untamed curls replied absently, holding a test tube to the light and squinting his eyes in concentration. Around him, an array of textbooks and papers were scattered about as he sat cross legged on the floor, his older brother leaning against the bookcase, observing him. He had laid his claim to one of the many studies in the Holmes's estate and made it his makeshift laboratory, Mycroft had his own as well, where he should be instead of bothering him while he tried measure the microorganisms in the pond water samples.

Through the murky test tube he sees his brother's face, can see the distorted smile and somehow it's worse. Mycroft's smile is the same as mummy's, and he hates it on his brother's face. Despises it, that pity and the under lurking disappointment he can see. "You will realize that it is much harder later on‒the world is not a kind place Sherlock, especially for you. Alone it is unbearable."

"Dull. I do not need anyone; companionship is boring, friendship is idiotic and relationships are the equivalent of mental castration. I do not need anyone to torture me so." He smirked. "I already have you and your oversized waist for that."

His older brother ignored the taunt and raised his eyebrow condescendingly."Really Sherlock, not even a ariolus?"

"There is no logically reasoning behind dream sharing, so why would I want one? Other than 'soulmates', which it sounds absolutely ridiculous and religious, in fact." His nose wrinkled in distaste. "Even so I do not have one. And I am not going to," Sherlock stated proudly, turning to look at his older brother triumphantly.

"There are other reasons," Mycroft replied. "The front lobe of the brain sends out wavelengths that correspond to a receptor that sends back corresponding wavelengths, thus creating a subconscious connection; allowing the other, the ariolus, access into your mind, but only when dreaming. In dreams the ariolus have control of what you see, and the power to turn dreams into nightmares or nightmares into dreams. There are other reasons ranging from religious to mythical but it is real even if there is no concrete knowledge as to how it functions."

"But there are cases in history that prove that sometimes there is no ariolus." Sherlock's eyes brightened, a keen and excitable energy rippling across his visage. "What about them?"

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "Sherlock there is something very disturbing and wrong with not having one."

Sherlock's lip curled in revulsion. "I don't care what anyone thinks. I will not have one."

"Then I hope for your sake you never come to understand the importance of one."

He ignores his brothers meddling, because really, it is trifling and he does not care what he has to say. Besides, what does Mycroft know, other than what is to be served for the next meal? He does not need anyone, not a friend, not a partner, and definitely not a _ariolus_.

* * *

><p>As the years go many things change. His body grows and his mind expands reaching areas and lengths far beyond the normal reach of child his age.<p>

People notice.

At first there is amazement, and he revels in it, enjoying the praise and attention, but it isn't long before that changes and the words become whispers and sneers, so he ignores it. Continues as he always does, observing and deducing, But the whispers are more insistent, the words spill onto the wind and into his ears, he hears everything and understands far more.

Sherlock is 12 when he is sent to a therapist and _diagnosed_–how he utterly despises the word, as if what he has is a disease, as if there is something wrong what he is, _who_ he is. He gains a classification as a high functioning sociopath, which really is not news to him, or mummy or Mycroft for that matter, so he scathingly reduces Dr. Watterson into a sniffling mass of tears, and gets kicked out of his first of many therapy sessions. The smug smirk on his face as he leaves is fiendish and devilish, and when he meets Mycroft's unamused stare, he narrows his eyes. "There is nothing wrong with me. I had no reason to be there, you are aware of that."

"Perhaps. But reducing a well respected and well reputed therapist is not something to be proud of, little brother. There may not be anything wrong with you, but that does not change the fact that the way you do things, the way you handle things, is wrong. And one of these days mummy and I won't be able to help you fix the messes and mistakes you make." Mycroft's stare hardened, the grey steeling over. "Learn to live in this world little brother, for there is no other and being at the edge of it is not an existence to be proud or fond of."

"I do not make mistakes. They are beneath me and what I do with my life is my concern, so stop butting in. How I deal with the world and how I live is up to me, not you." The defiance blazed in his eyes, his hands curled into fists, clenching the material of his soft and expensive trousers. "_There is nothing wrong with me_," the words force themselves out of clenched teeth and tightly clasped lips.

Mycroft leaned further back into the leather seat and tilted his head, observing his little brother. "Your behaviour has been excused and forgiven on the realms of youth and childish innocence, but that will not always apply. Learn before it is too late little brother or you will end up in the world where there is no one."

"You make it sound if that it is a terrible existence. What is so horrible about being alone?" Sherlock demanded. "What is wrong with that? You make it sound as if it is the worst punishment, as if somehow I should fear it."

The smile returns once more, the steeled gaze softens and the bluish tint comes back in his eyes. Sherlock clenched his jaw. "You pity me, why?"

"What else do you do with the foolish but pity them? I hope for you sake that bloated pride and arrogance of yours sustains you through life." Mycroft sighed deeply and turned his attention to the window, watching the vast green meadows pass. Sherlock's nostrils flared and he released a huff of air, and then jerked his head to stare at the window on the opposite side of Mycroft's head. His arms crossed over his chest and he slumped down petulantly in the seat, amusing himself with ploys and plots to torment Mycroft throughout the ride back home.

* * *

><p>Sherlock is 12 when Mycroft becomes too busy to visit home and mummy isn't always around. He is 12 when the childish, meaningless taunts turn into something else, something <em>monstrous<em> and _vicious _that prick at him and dig their way into his flesh like poison dipped darts that he can't shake off. They embed in his skin, sink down into his bones and travel into his bloodstream where they flow through and echo in his mind. He is 12 when he is looked at as something different, something contagious, something _nonhuman_, something to be feared and hated. He is 12 when he finally and fully understands Mycroft's words and warnings.

He adds a skull to his bookshelf.

* * *

><p>When Mycroft comes to visit on the rare weekend, and sees the skull up on top of bookcase next to his chemistry set, and butterfly samples, a pitying look crosses his face and he frowns in sympathy. Sherlock's stomach clenches uncomfortably and he slams the door brutally and sharply as he leaves the room, gnashing his teeth together violently.<p>

He burns Mycroft's books and possessions, but even the vicious stab of victory does not erase the look on Mycroft's face or the nauseous feeling rolling and tearing at his stomach lining. But it helps. A little. The fact that all of Mycroft's pants suddenly shrink in the following weeks and his brother starts declining extra helpings during meals helps a lot more.

But Sherlock starts to sleep less and less as the days go by, starts to retreat into himself. His cheeks start to sink in and his skin takes on an unhealthy tint.

One night after weeks of forced insomnia, his body finally forces him into a fretful slumber.

* * *

><p>He wakes up in an odd vacuum that is devoid of noise and any other color but the black that is before him. He tries to call forth the previous hours and draws nothing, tries to grasp any tendril of how he ended here, where here is, but his brain fails to connect as if the neurons are short-circuiting, failing to bring forth conclusions.<p>

A soft glow beckons and suddenly there are orbs of light that shimmer and glow with various colours of soft lights, swirling down around him in a vortex, gentle and curious. They are odd, multicolored, almost firefly-like balls of light that emit a glow that pushes the darkness away and cocoons him. His hands itch to grasp one and study it under the microscope, to dissect one and trace the veins and nerve pathways, to find out how everything works. To discover which chemical reactions cause the bioluminescence-like lights, to see whether the colours are a defence or a mating mechanism. Sherlock's hand darts out to capture one that strays too close and he closes his fist around the light. A thrill descends down his spine and a childish glee lights his eyes. But when he opens his hand there is nothing there. His brows crease in puzzlement and Sherlock tries it once more, to grab another light that drifts near his cheek but only to find the same result.

His lips tug petulantly downwards. What is this?

All of this is illogical, in the realms of the physical world impossible, there is‒oh.

_Oh._

A path of light opens up under his feet, reaching over the distance, and in the darkness, the orbs of light leave him and fly down the road. Sherlock watches them for a moment, a ballet of lights that dance and shimmer, before trailing after them.

The path he travels is timeless and infinite, as if it is endless and without destination, an aimless journey an unknown location. And given his rather impatient nature, it is quite the test. He's rather tempted to somehow fall to his death or impale himself, but apparently all there is nothingness and blackness ‒like Mycroft's sense of humor.

He snorts at his own brilliance but even that cannot keep the tedious and annoying tug of boredom away for long. There is not even anything to deduce. It is absolutely the worst torture to be inflicted on him‒and he has had to deal with mummy's tea party guests and the below average morons that 'instruct' him.

Suddenly the orbs of light stop in front of him and he halts as well and watching curiously as the orbs hover and glow brighter, until their shape disappears and he has to shield his eyes from the intensity of the light. Once he deems it safe, Sherlock lowers his forearm and stares at the rather plain and inconspicuous door before him. The wood is old and rough, a dark brown similar to the ancient willow tree he had once collected samples from near their summer villa, a rather diminished and beat up brown that has weathered under the skies of England. Ivy creeps and grips the wooden frame, splaying a hand of green across the doorway. _Hedera helix, English ivy_ his mind supplies absently as he leans closer to the door and flattens his hand against the wood, letting his thumb caress the wood slowly, and then his fingers trail down the groves and spirals.

He studies the door.

There is nothing remarkable about it, average and rather unexceptional. Many would walk past without acknowledgment, but then again, the lesser minds miss the most important details of what they deem insignificant. His hand drifts down to the doorknob with speckles of crimson rust and he wraps his fingers around it, turning the knob swiftly and walking across the threshold.

Icy crystallizes and cocoons him and his breath is stifled inside his chest, held encaged and captive, and as he breaks through to the other side he lets out his breath, which vaporizes and turns into a cloud of mist that swirls and coils itself in the air before slowly drifting away from him. The cold recedes, unwraps itself from him and in its wake leaves icy fingertips running against his flesh.

Before his eyes, there is a chasm of white. Nothing but the colour of white‒unblemished, untouched, and undisturbed. The wind brushes against his curls and slowly the snow falls, chilling his bare skin and collecting in his hair.

Which is...

Utterly boring! Boring! Boring! **_Boring_**! Of course he'd be stuck with an idiot who dreamed of nothing! Damn Mycroft! His bloody pant trousers are getting wet, oh the joy in contracting pneumonia in a dream. Why could he not have a ariolus that dreamed of murder? Was it really too much a trouble to g‒

"Oi! Oi! Watch out!"

Before he even has time to turn and look, some force knocks against his knees and he tumbles backwards, landing roughly on his back. Sherlock's eyes snap open and a biting retort is edging out of his mouth, but it fails to come out as he sees the face of his ariolus, more accurately his ariolus's choice in clothing. Well from what he make out, his ariolus has a horrendous fashion sense and apparently a partiality for ugly jumpers. His eyes drift over the face, blond hair, blue eyes, 14-16 years in age judging from the facial structure. A bit short for his height compared to the average height of British boys in his age range. He has perhaps an approximation of seven to nine years to reach a somewhat normal height, but he highly doubts that will ever happen. Either has or will develop a complex about height in the future.

All in all his ariolus is average‒a heavy pressure congeals over his chest and the frustration mounts. His ariolus is a bloody average boy. How is _this boy_ supposed to be his? There is absolutely no compatibility whatsoever, only painful mental castration awaits, his brain cells will wither away and then he'd become just like everyone else. The intolerable horror causes an involuntary shudder to run through him.

"Are you all right there? Didn't mean to run you down but really you were standing there like a gangly tree."

"Oh God, you are so bloody average." Sherlock sneers. The boy raises his eyebrow and he rolls his eyes. Of course he'd get stuck with the one with delicate sentiments, not that it mattered, because he would never return. "Look I‒"

"Huh, so you're my ariolus I wasn't expecting anyone so posh looking," the boy grins, "guess we both got bit of a surprise."

"I assure you I was not surprised this is the face of utter disappointment," Sherlock gritted out as he struggled to get back up on his feet. The boy gets up and reaches out his hands when Sherlock fails to accept the boy lets out an amused huff and catches Sherlock by the elbow and helps him up.

"Up we go."

Once he's up, Sherlock pats himself down getting all the snow off his clothes, and he catches the odd look on the shorter boy's face. "You're staring, why?"

"Huh?" He bashfully scratches the back of his head. "Oh, well how old are you?"

"12."

"12‒_are you joking_? Bloody hell! 12! You're taller than me! Well that's fantastic I'm almost 16 and here is this lanky 12 year old taller than me!" John grumbles peeved. Height complex is developed then and is a bit of sore spot. The boy sighs and shakes his head. "Sorry, forget about that I'm John Watson your ariolus, nice to meet you." John holds out his hand with a broad and boyish grin.

He ignores the hand and glances around in disgust, his nose crinkles. "Why are you dreaming of such a boring place?"

"...Are you always so tactful?"

Sherlock lets out a disdainful snort. "Tact is for idiots who like to dwindle, I'd rather get straight to the point rather than waste time."

John lets his hand fall and bends down to pick up his wooden sled. "Well have you ever gone sledding?"

"No. Why would I?"

"For fun?" John suggests mirthfully as he turns to trudge back up the slope.

Sherlock trails after him with two long strides. "I dissect things for fun; going down a hill is not what I define as fun."

John halts and turns his head to glance at him. "You dissect things?" he repeats back slowly as if he misheard him.

"Bugs, small rodents, managed to get a piglet once. It's rather interesting, looking at how they function, though I wish I could get my hands on a human cadaver but that is rather difficult at my age."

"Not to mention illegal," John mutters as he turns back around and picks up his pace.

"Details really but I'm sure I can work around that."

"Really how so?" there is a curious tone to the voice soft and questioning not cruel, mocking or condescending, it is merely inquisitive and interested. It is much different from the standard norm that he generates.

"Could impersonate a doctor," he suggests absently as he tries to study John.

"Still illegal. Wouldn't it make sense do something more low key? Like the EM? Or a janitor? Their faces aren't really too well remembered, but you'd have to take care as not be too flashy and it'll probably have to be when you're a bit older and able to blend in," John tosses back as he struggles a bit to climb up.

Sherlock hums to himself. "No a janitor wouldn't have access to bodies but an EM, now that is actually a decent idea."

"...Is everything that comes out of your mouth meant to be an insult?"

Ah, there is a variation of the usual response. "I merely state the truth. Whether people get insulted is their fault, really."

"I take it you offend a lot of people then."

"Perhaps, but it's not my fault they are stupid."

John lets out a chuckle, puffs of air coil out of his mouth and has to stop walking once more, Sherlock stops next to him. John beams back up to him once he notices Sherlock's stare. "You're an odd one, but interesting."

Sherlock tilts his head. "You are as well."

"Really why?" John questions as he resumes his pace.

"Because your still here talking to me." Sherlock states as he easily keeps pace with John barely a brisk walk.

"Don't get much for second takers then?"

"Not really."

"Their loss then."

Sherlock's lip quirked. "Perhaps."

Silence settles over them as they both climb up the hill, their breath coming out in wisps of mist that curl against the sides of their mouths and then drift behind them. Their feet crunching against snow, compressing it with their weight and leaving the snow marked as they stagger up. "If this is your dream why are we walking up the hill?"

"Because it's the fun of it!"

"I fail to find the fun in climbing up a hill to merely go back down it in a repetitive manner."

"That's because you haven't tried it, now have you? Ah, look we're at the top."

"I am consumed with joy," Sherlock drawled in a monotone as he turned to look over the scene. "I am practically _brimming_ with joy."

"Oh, shove it, try it once and then we'll do something else." John clicked his tongue. "But first you need to at least look the part." John squints his eyes and makes a triumphant sound. "There we go."

Sherlock glances down and finds himself in a snow jacket thankfully not as hideous as the one John seems to deem acceptable, fitted gloves not anything too ridiculous, a soft dark blue scarf...it is adequate enough‒considering the alternatives it is sufficient.

"I was right, you do look good in a scarf," John says after a moment with an odd hint of pride.

His eyebrow cocks at that. "I look good in anything."

"Oh God, remind me never to compliment you, I think your ego might swell too much." John shakes his head and crouches down next to his sled. "You ready?"

Sherlock stands resolutely still. "I still fail to find the amusement in this."

"Get on."

"I find this ridiculous John."

"Come on now we've come this far you might as well."

"I'm much too old for this."

"Your 12," John deadpans, "this is what you should be doing and it's not like anyone will ever know but us. Come on we've made this far. Try it." He pats the wood.

"Really this is just chil‒"

"Your 12," John repeats. "If this is about age I'm almost 16, age has nothing to do this with this you posh little shit, get on!" They glare at each other. "Get. On." John commands firmly.

Sherlock lets out a huff and sits down. "Happy?"

"Very." John settles down behind him. "Okay so grab the reigns, not like that tighter okay good, ready?"

"If I said no would you stop this foolishness?"

"Nope," John replied cheerfully and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist. "I'm going to push now okay? And here we go!" John uses his weight to propel them forward.

Sherlock eyes widen as he is suddenly pitched forward and bites back the surprised sound that peeks out through his mouth. The arms around his waist tighten and there is a steady weight and warmth against his back. John lets out a gleeful sound as they tumble down. The wind bites against the skin of his face that remains uncovered, stinging and whipping, the world rushes past them a blur of nothing but white that zooms past him only to appear once more. Then there is an odd, unpredicted, unforeseen and startling development. His chest swells with an unexpected joy and happiness, a rush of emotion. It is merely seconds, 30 to perhaps a minute that the ride lasts, and then somehow they both end of sprawled on their backs giggling absurdly, the sled tossed to the side. Once they've calmed down somewhat, John turns his head to look at him, his cheeks and nose flushed a soft pink, and his eyes convey the expectancy and question.

"It...wasn't too dreadful," Sherlock replies reluctantly as he stubbornly keeps his eyes on the sky. His eyes skirt over to John, he catches John's eye, and they hold their gaze for a second in silence. And then both of them grin madly and once more crackle with laughter. Their chests shake with the force of their amusement and at the end of it they are left gasping for breath, both flushed with a healthy glow and teary eyed.

* * *

><p>They end up back on top of the hill merely looking down; John stretched out, his hands flat on the ground behind him as he clicks his boots together. Sherlock is next to him sitting crossed legged, his hands steeled under his chin his eyes closed he sits unmoving, frozen. "John."<p>

"Hm?"

"We should introduce ourselves since we plan to keep this acquaintanceship, but I should tell you that my sleep habit is sparse at best, so we will not meet often, perhaps sometimes but I think our partnership has promise." Sherlock snaps his eyes open and turns to look at John his stare assessing and calculating. "I presume your answer will be an affirmative."

John raises his brow and keeps on clicking his boots together. "Is this your awkward attempt to be civil?"

"...I may have assumed incorrectly that we had not been compatible," Sherlock replies haughtily.

"So you made a mistake?" John supplies.

"I don't make mistakes, John don't reach so far," Sherlock states, agitated. "Well? Are you going to stare at me with a vacant and stupid expression or will you speak?" Underneath his words, there is a hesitance, uncertain and tentative waver in his voice.

John leans forward his eyes glinting mischievously. "I feel like I should savour this. I'm sure this doesn't happen often for you or you never admit it." When John sees the twitch starting to work its way under his right eye he grins sweetly. "Okay." John puts his mitten between his teeth and pulls wiggling his hand out he drops the mitten into his lap once his hand his free and holds his hand before him. "John Watson your personal ariolus, at your service."

Sherlock reaches out and grips the offered hand. "Sher‒"

But then something happens. At first, it is merely a speck against the corner of his eye that catches his attention and he turns to look. The once pristine white darkens, turning gruesome and horrid with pitch-blackness. The blue from the sky is stolen by the greyness and from it falls ash. Sherlock turns back to look at John when the hand around his tightens and there is such fear and terror in his face. John is so small then, it is almost as if his jacket is going to engulf him. "John?"

"You have to leave now," John, whispers quietly, his lips barely moving.

"Why?" Sherlock questions, not understanding.

"Get out."

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "No. I will not."

John snatches his hand back. "You don't understand you have to go. I'm sorry you can't come back, you shouldn't have come in the first place. I'm so‒" John freezes and stares behind Sherlock fixated on a spot, forced to hold his gaze and the fear grows before John jerks his gaze back to Sherlock. "Never come back."

"You ca‒" Sherlock's words get compressed against his chest as he's thrown back with such force and power it is as if his body and his bones are being slammed with lead. Everything deteriorates, and, it lasts for only a second but once it's over he's left gagging and clawing for air. He pants and looks up and the door he entered faces him. Sherlock sneers and stumbles to his feet, and rattles the doorknob, but it refuses to move. "Damn it! Come on!" He grits his teeth and slams his fists against the wooden frame. "John! John! Open the door! John!" Sherlock snarls and hits the door harder but the stupid thing refuses to budge. Sherlock steps back and shoves his hand through his hair in frustration, what he can do? Think! Come on think! There must be a‒no, no, no, no! The door in front of him starts to fade, so Sherlock throws himself forward and tries to hold on, tries to grab a hold but his hands merely go through and he is left helpless, feeble, and weak as he watches the door disappears entirely.

Sherlock is left in the void.

* * *

><p>Never has the Holmes's estate bore witness to such anger and fury as it does the next morning. Sherlock has torn every fabric in his room, the curtains hang limply on the rod, the bedspread, pillows and sheets are ripped beyond repair and strewn on the floor. Everything on the bookcases finds its way to the floorboards, spines of books are broken, and the pages inside torn, glass shards and clay coat the floor in a dangerous array and in the middle of the destruction stands Sherlock. His white dress shirt is splattered with blood and missing the top buttons. The bottoms of his feet leave bloody prints as he walks and his knuckles are broken, the skin cracked and split. There are only two things that remain spared from his wrath that day and whole—his violin and skull.<p>

Sherlock deletes everything related to the night before. Deletes from his mind the day of snow, the rush of air against his cheeks. He erases the existence of the average boy with blond hair and blue eyes.

He does not need anyone, not a friend, not a partner, and definitely not a _ariolus_. That is what he imprints over his sealed and barricaded heart.

* * *

><p><em>15 years pass before it starts once more, before the story left incomplete and frozen in the snowy landscape begins again. <em>

His shoulders cave as he hunches over the microscope in one of labs at Bart's, peering through the lenses and using the knobs to focus on the microscope slide. His hand drifts to the pipette and he steadily moves the dropper and drips the chemical solution slowly, watching the reaction. The microorganisms disintegrate before his eyes, reaction time 2 seconds, dosage five millilitres. If another solvent is added perhaps he could reduce the reaction time at least, but should he add a base? Or an acid? The door to the room opens, and he notes the presence of two people and then pushes it to a far off corner in his mind as refocuses his lenses. A base, yes that would be better, a milliliter or two should do it. A muted conversation takes place that he pays no attention to and continues his experiment. His phone rattles in his trousers, ah, yes time to send a little reminder to Scotland Yard of their incompetence.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." Sherlock asks without moving from his position.

"And what's wrong with the landline?"

"I prefer to text."

Mike shrugs in apology. "Sorry. It's in my coat."

"Here. Use mine." Sherlock looks up at that. Blond hair, blue eyes, a rather inconspicuous man, average even. But stance, haircut, personal hygiene describe a military man, tan line, overseas, cane, wounded in battle as a result is discharged and rendered invali‒no. Wrong. Hasn't asked for a chair, so he doesn't remember the leg. Interesting.

"Oh. Thank you." He pushes himself away from the stool and walks towards the man; he glances over at Mike as a victorious smile edges across his face. Potential roommate, then. Perhaps this one would be slightly less than dull, a wounded soldier as a roommate better was than nothing. Much better than the alternative, Sherlock has to force the sneer starting to emerge down‒Mycroft wouldn't win this. He'd keep this one. Sherlock takes the offered phone and turns slightly away so the screen is concealed from the soldier as he flips open the keyboard. Mycroft could stuff his fat and bloated face with his suggestion of moving back home to live with him. He'd take the soldier over Mycroft, _anything_ over Mycroft. The soldier will do nicely. Mycroft was about to lose this game.

"_Afghanistan or Iraq?_"

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><p>So my Latin sucks and I really don't know how to apply it very well but Ariolus means seer or diviner, I liked the word so I used it and if you happen to know Latin and I am using this wrong please correct me.<p>

Thank you for reading. : )


	2. Chapter 2

I know I posted this before but it went through major editing and change so here it is again. This is betaed by writeswithfeatherquills thank you for offering your help and I'm looking for someone to share her burden because I'm a fucking mess majority of the time.

I'm in the market for a new beta if you will be so kind to offer I would be most grateful.

Update: February 28, 2015 just changed the word I used for a dream sharer because really it bothered the Hell out of me.

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><p><strong>Webs and Insects <strong>

_Drip, drip, drip, drip_from the iron rusted pipes the water drops and combines to form a steadily growing puddle of water near his feet on the grey industrial floor. Well, it's more of a oil spill in the minimum lighting. From four corners there is nothing but the bleak and morbid colour of old, crack ridden concrete that from the looks of it would flick right off if he slid his finger down the wall. The ceiling above him is bare so the plumbing and pipes are seen. There are no windows and he is firmly sure that the abandoned building he has been..._forcible_ made to enter was chosen precisely to get the lighting to be the right amount of menacing and foreboding in atmosphere. Bloody Holmes's and their constant need for dramatics, it was one thing for Sherlock to do with it his coat, his cheekbones, and his stupid scarf, but really now, did his brother _really _need to continuously kidnap him off the street and then take him to unknown locations? He wouldn't be surprised if they somehow had a wager to one up the other in the mysterious show offs and displays. Honestly some days he didn't know which Holmes he hated more, the one off his rocker or the one who liked to use his position to keep an eye on things and essentially misuse his power quite grossly. Apparently, neither Holmes recognized the fact he did have a life, a job, and things to do that did not involve either of them. One would think they had somehow gotten the notion stuck in their bloated heads that everyone and the world in it catered to them and their whims, arrogant sods with a repulsing amount of self-importance.

There is a rhythmical and metrical tap that echoes and draws him from his musing, and would you look at that, from the shadows emerges the oldest Holmes. Somehow managing to seem like the abandoned buildings are places he frequented with comfort. His dark grey three-piece suit primly and stiffly made of a no doubt expensive fabric that he most likely cannot pronounce and doesn't even know the name of, his hair is styled into a neat arrangement of ginger brown each strand orderly stationed. Mycroft pauses, taps his umbrella in front of him, and nods.

"John a pleasure to see you again, it has been awhile hasn't it?" he says pleasantly as if the whole arrangement was normal and they had both accepted the regularity of the situation, which he once again had no say in. Another thing both brothers have in common, was it a genetic disease with these two? A mutation?

John smiles tightly, unfriendly and unwelcoming. "Well I didn't have much of choice did I?" he says with a politeness that is more biting than anything else really. Mycroft ignores him, which is not too much of a surprise because really neither of these brothers has much in the way of manners or respect for others or laws. There must definitely be something wrong at the genetic level with these two or some gene to create two of the most invasive and bloody annoying gits in the world that he's come to be acquainted with.

"Would you care for some tea?" Mycroft questions with a straight face.

He has to pause for a second, off guard and unsure of what to make out of the context. "...I'm sorry did you ask me for tea?" he repeats just to be sure he heard correctly.

The older man merely turns his head a fraction and then suddenly behind him the area lights, there is a medium sized elegant table equipped with chairs, two cups, a teapot, cutlery, and a dessert tray piled high with sweets and scones. Mycroft taps his umbrella and turns swiftly walking to the table; he stands by the side and turns to look back at John, his fine eyebrow raises.

"Shall we?" He beckons.

"I'd rather not, actually. If you would get to the p‒"

"John you have just gotten off of a one of my brother's..." Mycroft moves his mouth in distaste, "_cases_ and I am well aware that he refuses to eat or sleep and lets you do neither and if he does it is the bare minimum. You must be hungry, so please eat your fill and then we will talk." Mycroft begins to pour the steaming tea into the cups. "A bit of cream right that is how you take your tea when you are tried?" It's not a question, it's a show of how much and how easily Mycroft can gather information even something so unimportant.

But frankly he is drained, his body is sore and his leg has been acting up again. He wants to say no and just walk out and tell Mycroft to bugger off but he doesn't. He can't, he doesn't have the energy to put up a fight after running around London trying to make sure no one shot Sherlock, again, or Sherlock didn't get his face pounded in because everything that came out of his mouth was offensive and cutting. He sighs and grudgingly takes a seat and wraps his fingers around the cup. He inhales the delightful aroma; it has been awhile since he had a good cup of tea. In fact, Mrs. Hudson has most likely dumped the last one after Sherlock decided that the time to go crime solving through the streets of London was the only time he had wanted tea. Inconsiderate little shit he is sometimes...majority of the times. _All the time_. Tea. Yes, tea will do him good. He lets the warm liquid travel down his throat, filters through his chest, and warms his sore and aching body. A little bit of tension lifts from his shoulders and he closes his eyes savoring it.

Mycroft sits down as well and sips slowly from his cup, his eyes accessing, boring, and calculating. "John do try to the jam, I know how fond of it you are and with your cohabitation with Sherlock how rarely you get it. I ordered it just for you." He nods to the jar, a beautiful one crafted at that. "I hope it suits your taste."

Sometimes he wants to snort at the fanciness and posh manner both the brother's seem to parade around like preening birds.

"Thank you," John says and brings the jar closer to him, there is catch coming and he is well aware of that but he should at least get that much after dealing with both the younger brother and the older one in the same day. He deserves a lot more in truth, but the jam and uninterrupted meal will do. John spreads the jam plentifully and unrestrained over his scone with his knife and takes a bite. Instantly his mouth fills with a delicious sweetness and tartness that has him speechless and happy. He finishes his first one in quick bites and takes a second adding a bit more jam to it. It is good jam; maybe he should ask Mycroft the brand so he can have it at hand? No, knowing Mycroft is it probably too ridiculously expensive to afford on his meager pay and no doubt imported from somewhere.

Mycroft wordlessly finishes his tea and pours himself another cup allowing John to eat his fill in sweets and jam. Once a sufficient amount of time has passed Mycroft sets his teacup on the saucer, settles back into his chair, his folds his hands in his lap, and waits.

John sighed and nibbled on the last bit of scone trying to make the most of it. At least the tea and sweets were good, he was going to miss them and no doubt regret not leaving when he had the chance, probably regret ever getting involved with the two brother's. He finished his treat already longing for the peace and sanity and steeled himself.

"Why am I here?"

"Are you sure you wouldn't care for anything else? More tea? Perhaps another scone?" Mycroft asks politely out of courtesy and some sense of duty and drilled etiquette from his childhood that apparently Sherlock entirely ignored, dismissed or deleted.

He would appreciate it any other day after spending so many months living with Sherlock but today he's a frayed rope hanging by just a thread and he doesn't want to play this game. Sometimes Sherlock's lack of tact, lack of decorum and direct and no doubt insensitive manner is welcomed and appreciated, today is one of those rare days. "No, thank you I have had plenty. I'd rather stop skirting around the issue and get to the point, please." The words are blunt and straight to the point.

If Mycroft is surprised by his lack of evasiveness and the straightforward manner of his words, he doesn't show it, not a twitch or a movement of his face. "Very well, moving on then," and sudden the air is heavier there is a tense and seriously note, the lazy and almost hospitable atmosphere is gone, erased and forgotten. Mycroft's face is stern and unmoving, frozen and expressionless as hard cold stone. It has John on guard and cautious as quick as wildfire. "Consider what I am to relay to you a word of advice." The way the words hang between them suggests anything but advice; it's more of a demand, decree, and a order all in one.

A deep crease appears above John's brows and a frown tugs at his mouth. "Advice? What for?" he questions carefully.

"The subject matter you are well aware of, I'm sure entails my brother," Mycroft replies primly. Instantly John's face closes off; wrinkles appear in the corner of his eyes and there is tautness in his face.

"What about him?" He can't decipher the unmovable mask Mycroft dons. Where Sherlock has an almost childlike tendency to display his anger, disgust, joy, boredom or repulsiveness Mycroft is the opposite. He seals it away, so deeply that it is impossible to have a glimpse or a peek of any thought or expression. It is one of the most frustrating things with all the interactions he has with the older Holmes, he is never sure of what goes on in his mind or what he feels at any given moment and it is maddening to even try to figure it out.

Mycroft takes his time delicately choosing the words with precision and care. "My brother is very... _different,_ and not in a good manner the majority of the time and it is not quirkiness or eccentricity, there is something very wrong with him, John. He lacks something."

"What are you trying to say?" There is a under note of stiffness and protectiveness, something that still manages to bring a bit of surprise, people don't feel that way about Sherlock, very few in fact, he could name them all on one hand and even then John was unique. Outward his face is impassive and almost bored.

"Most consider him to be a monster," he tosses easily without a care.

There is spark of anger that flicker's deep in his chest, John tightness his grip on his hand rests and says nothing. Mycroft proceeds watching the former solider closely.

"A freak, abnormal, psychopath, mentally unstable, a deviant, manipulator, heartless, inhuman take your pick there are many names." John grits his teeth.

"Sherlock is none of those," he asserts vehemently.

The smile is cold and doesn't fit on Mycroft's still face, it is out of place.

"You say that now, but will you always when you see something darker in him? When you see something that will go against your morality and ethics that my brother so carelessly oversteps and ignores?"

There is dark truth in Mycroft's words and the meaning underneath them. It's there but he refuses to acknowledge it, ignores it and plays dumb. He trusts Sherlock. He has to.

"Sherlock isn't a monster, he's not a saint either, he is an arrogant, pompous, selfish twat and a nightmare of a roommate but he isn't a monster." The smile turns even more frigid and icy.

"You say that because you are charmed by my brother and what he does to your mundane and bleak life. You are charmed by the danger, by what Sherlock can give you that you have craved since the war." He has to the snort at that, Sherlock and charming?

"Oh please, I'm not charmed—that wore of the second he stopped pretending and became Sherlock." Nevertheless, there isn't a lie in Mycroft's words either. But he trusts Sherlock. He doesn't doubt the man that Sherlock is despite the loose morals he has. Sherlock is more human than most people he has met. That he has had to kill. That he has to serve and protect. He is one of the very few real people he has met in a very long time.

John stares down at his empty teacup. His mind drifts, the howling wind and gunshots echo in his mind ingrained against the walls of his skull. There are pleas and prayers so sincere and that will not be answered, blood splatters and pours. Everyone bathed in it and painted by it, the gruesome stench of burned and rotting flesh. The faces of inhuman and cruel monsters that do not care of the people they kill, of the countless innocent bystanders that they leave lying in rubble or dead on the street. Sometimes the faces morph and it is his own comrades who are the ones that make those decisions that claw and tear the insides of the bone of skull. When he speaks, his voice is quiet but firm and solid.

"Mycroft, I have _seen_monsters, I have faced monsters and Sherlock is not one of them. Sherlock will never be one of them." He is so sure of it, as if it is a fact unchangeable and so true that it cannot be refuted or denied just as the presence of the sky cannot be or the air. Such unshakeable and unbreakable faith this one man has in his brother. Mycroft stares at the doctor, his face inexpressive and unreadable.

"I have no doubt you have faced monsters on the battlefield but Sherlock is something different isn't he?"

"Yes, bu‒"

The older Holmes continues unmindful of the interruption, "Which is precisely why he is much more dangerous."

John clenches his teeth. He is done. He doesn't have the patience to deal with Mycroft and watch him piss all over Sherlock. John gets up so quickly that everything rattles and precariously shakes on the table.

"Well then I'll be leaving, thank you for the tea but please let us not make it a regular occurrence," he grits out tightly with a barely controlled wrath and fury.

"I am not done speaking John, sit down." It's a command that John ignores.

"Oh, but I'm done listening though so if you'll excuse me." John moves to leave and disregards the threatening tone.

Mycroft narrows his eyes dangerously. "_Sit. Down._"

There is a moment of silence where neither party diverts his gaze. A flicker of tension sparks between them and John's nostrils flare and he drops down heavily and glares menacingly. There is a deadly frustration blooming and fracturing in his chest. Mycroft pours more tea into the cups; John leaves his untouched letting it cool while Mycroft leisurely sips.

Mycroft begins once more. "My brother will never tell you this so I will, I do not want you to stay unaware more so when it seems you will not be moving anytime soon. My brother does not have a ariolus and you are aware of what is associated with that. If you have once doubted for a moment my brother was not a sociopath you are utterly and completely wrong, blind and misguided." Mycroft's gaze sharpens the blue edging into a steel cold grey. "My brother is an infernus."

John crosses his arms over his chest.

"So?" Mycroft's immaculate eyebrow arches at that. "Is this supposed to scare me? Make me hate Sherlock? Make me fear him? What?" Of course, the doctor is full of surprises he had to be in order to deal with Sherlock or in the matter keep Sherlock entertained and somewhat obedient.

"Nothing of the sort. In contrast if you stayed I'd be grateful but at the same time I find it exceedingly unfair and morally wrong for you to be uninformed of everything. When my brother forms an attachment to something he gets..._possessive_, similar to a child that will not let anyone else have his toy but it is much more darker and sinister you must understand my‒"

"Wait, wait, wait! You don't think‒Oh my God, you‒" Incredulity courses through him, there is no way Mycroft thinks that...a groan of complete mortification and humiliation drags its way out of his chest.

"Bloody Hell! You can't be serious!" John frantically leans closer to Mycroft tightly gripping the sides of the table. "Sherlock and I aren't together! We have never been together! There is no together, trust me on that. Look Sherlock and I are just friends, we don't‒I can't even finish this sentence. Are you utterly mad?"

"John do not misunderstand me, what label you give your relationship is of no importance to me‒" Mycroft supplies calmly.

"No! There are no labels whatsoever!" He wants to rip the hair right of his skull in frustration. Why is this even a conversation he needs to have? With Mycroft? With _anyone_?!

Mycroft continues, "But I would merely like for you to be entirely informed and if at any point you find yourself overwhelmed I will always offer you a hand. But John I want you to understand that if Sherlock forms an attachment to you it will become increasingly difficult for me to help, so the sooner the better. If you have any doubts about living with my brother, with dealing with his absurd demands and troublesome nature I would like to offer you my assistance. I can have a nice apartment and job setup for you instantly so if you find yourself ever needing one do get in touch."

"Thank you but really I don't need it and Sherlock and I aren't in a relationship, we've never been in one and we never will be so you don't have to worry about Sherlock ever getting attached to me. Really you don't need to worry about that at all," John insisted adamantly.

"Very well whatever you deem the best I will respect your wishes." Mycroft set down his cup with a click. "But in all seriousness, the ariolus business you understand my reluctance in leaving you unaware?"

"I understand but this will not change the way I see Sherlock or how I deal with him." John paused. He can't get his tongue to work to further. Not on this. He can never get it to. He swallows wetly his tongue hanging uselessly in his mouth. "I‒"

"I know," Mycroft says softly taking the burden of speech and truth off of John. For once he is glad Mycroft oversteps the bounds of confidentiality and privacy.

"Then you understand my reason for not judging or caring about that. Sherlock is good man even without a ariolus, misguided, lonely, perhaps but despite it all he is a good man," John states resolutely with a firm strength. How easily this man seems to understand Sherlock.

_How foolish and stupid._

John sees only what Sherlock allows him to see, so he will stay.

So easily manipulated he is, but one day Sherlock would slip up and reveal, say or doing something and in it would destroy the little word he has so meticulously and unknowing built and unconsciously protected.

And in that moment he would teach Sherlock an unforgettable and harsh lesson that has eluded him for far too long. John would be the perfect instrument at that moment. However, in honesty it would be better if the day never came for either of them. But all things so precariously built must fall apart and shatter and if he has to tip it then so be it. He has done his part and warned him of the coming future if to somehow payback the debt he is come to establish with John; even in the other party is unaware. If he were, a lesser man perhaps there would be a sting of guilt or shame for what he has planned but there nothing but a little pity and it isn't for his brother for once.

The things he must do for Sherlock.

Mycroft moves to stand and John follows the movement getting up as well, both of them walk to the exit side by side until they reach the outside. A breeze starts to stir and the clouds are dark and ominously filled with moisture that seems ready to pour and drip. Seconds later a sleek black car pulls up in front of them and before he has the chance to get in Mycroft grabs his hand and squeezes it gently.

"I want to thank you for taking care of my brother it relieves a great deal of stress and I know it not easy to live with a tyrant like Sherlock I am truly grateful for your presence in my brother's life." Mycroft squeezes his hand once more and lets go as he takes a step back. "Take care of yourself, John. My men will drop off where you wish to go."

John grins. "As a favor can we skip the meeting in abandon buildings?"

Mycroft smiles a little. "Of course."

Well if Mycroft was going actually listen for once..."And the pulling up on the curve and picking me up borderline kidnapping situation?" he tries.

"Goodbye, John." Mycroft dismisses him easily.

Of course, he rolls his eyes he had forgotten how willful and prone to being mysterious both of them are. "Goodbye, Mycroft."

Mycroft watches the car pull away and taps his umbrella against the pavement. What would the future entail? Well whatever it would hold he had done his part to warn the doctor but the mess and disaster that will inevitably happen will not be on his conscience, no matter of how little conscience he has. Oh God, he hoped London wouldn't bare the wrath of it, it was one thing when Sherlock was gallivanting around like a little miscreant crime solver but it would be another if he did it while infatuated. A chill wracked his body the horror, the untold horror. He could already feel the beginnings of a headache, oh dear this was going to be a testing situation.

He sighed deeply.

At least his brother had managed to find someone, whether he kept him would be a different matter but truly he was grateful to John for saving his brother from his lonely world and many other things he could not tell him just yet, but one day he would. But merely, simply, and purely Mycroft hopes his brother will not destroy the trust and faith this man has, it will be a terrible thing to see Doctor John Watson to be proven wrong.

It is salvation John Watson so desperately seeks but is it salvation where Sherlock will lead? What John has failed to see is the chasm that Sherlock has always been on the edge of threatening to fall, a sinister and vile abyss. And in recent times the worse it has become because if Sherlock falls, it will no longer be just himself he will take down anymore, he will drag down John Watson with him to his Hell and there will be no coming back.

He idly considers if his brother truly understands the importance of this man? Of what place John Watson has made for himself, which Sherlock has allowed to be forged. How pitiful it will be if he doesn't until it is too late. His brother has proven to be blind to some of the things that stand before him. His thoughts start to stray and uncoil leaving his musings to a corner in his mind.

Sometimes the image of a wounded winged insect caught in a web will not leave him when he gazes at two them, absent and distracted. The web serves no purpose if there is nothing captured and ensnared in it, yet the insect is better off without it, safe, free, and happy. But the web is left waiting until it is inevitably destroyed, desolate and obsolete without the insect. One only exists if the other does, has a purpose, has meaning.

_But who is the insect?_

Mycroft rises his eyes to the skyline watching the gathering and pregnant clouds. A very heavy downpour was to come it seemed.

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><p>This series is an experimentation for me and my writing I hope you enjoy it and if not please do give me criticism. Thank you for reading. : )<p>

Translation from Latin to English:

Ariolus= seer or diviner  
>Infernus= the damned<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

I know this probably has a bunch of mistakes my beta writeswithfeatherquills tried her best but I know I make a lot of mistakes which is I need a beta to help her out and if you want to offer your services please I would be most grateful for your help.

*Bows* Thank for taking the time to read this, it means a lot to me.

Also there will be eventually Johnlock but it will be later when I get to it. It is coming rest assured! But it will be slow developing.

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><p><strong>The Case of the Sleeping Death<strong>

There is an electric impulse underneath his skin that strains to breakout; the current is agitated and frustrated.

_There is no escape_.

He wants to claw off his own flesh, dig his fingers into his skin and peel it right off the bone, watch the muscles underneath twitch and contract, at least then he'd be somewhat preoccupied and there wouldn't be this clutter that never ceases in his mind. Sound that refuses to be silenced that beats against the inner walls of skull, insistent and maddening. A destructive, chaotic and consuming melody of insanity is what thrashes in his mind, threatening to seize and drag him down.

_There is an itch_.

A craving deep in his gut that reaches its gangly and gnarled fingers to grasp at his neck and squeeze so an uncomfortable prickle is lodged at the back off his throat that even the six patches scattered on his arm will not dislodge from his neck. There is a dull, nonexistent pressure in his arm; an ache where the track marks used to be. He recalls the path he would inject onto his skin, the trail would work itself down his vein, other times he'd write a symphony on his skin, it would start off flawless and slowly fall into madness and insanity without meaning or rhythm. A scattered trace of mixes of red, blue and purple that stood monstrously against his too pale skin, made it look sickly, diseased and festering. He'd stare at them for hours memorized, entranced, letting his fingers follow the path.

At a glance, a barely indistinguishable breathing pattern is detected. If there wasn't the occasional blink one would assume Sherlock wasn't a physical entity but instead a beautifully crafted sculpture...well until Sherlock opened his mouth and degraded everyone. He hasn't moved from his position in hours, sprawled on the length of the sofa with his hands steeled under his chin and his eyes fixated on the ceiling, dressed in his blue nightgown, sleep pants and a ratty shirt.

"John," he mutters. "I need another patch."

Silence answers him.

"John."

Sherlock tries once more.

"John!" but the result is the same, he lets out a frustrated huff and his nostrils flare.

"John!"

The prick of agitation grows, Sherlock's eyebrows furrow down. It was just a jumper, a hideous jumper. John should be thanking him for getting rid of that monstrosity. It was merely minor fiber disintegration in a tub of acid. John should get over it and move on.

Oh, wait, was John angry about the sweater or the tub of acid? Or was it both? Hm. Better hold off on experimenting with John's jumpers for this week.

Well he wasn't entirely too cross about it though, on the table next to him, in the midst of newspaper clippings, folders, are multiple cups of tea and plates of biscuits that John has left in the vain and futile hope that Sherlock will eat something. So why was he not responding?

"John?" Sherlock tilted his head and blinked, his eyes straining in the darkness of the room. Ah, it was night, judging from the intensity of moonlight as well as the streetlights it was approximately 2 am.

No wonder John had not responded he was sleeping, he sneered, how dull. Sherlock flopped back down into his previous position starting sightlessly at the ceiling above him. He slowly blinked.

It is insufferable. Intolerable. Unbearable. Agonizing.

Bored.

_Bored. _

_Bored. _

_**Bored**_.

**He was so utterly bored!**

How did the lesser beings manage in their mundane and feeble little insignificant minds, how did they deal with this? Live with such tedious boredom?

Not a bloody case, on the blog or from the Yard—there must be something that would take the dull monotonous tug of boredom away from him? He had already finished his experiments on the body parts in the fridge this week. What to do?

His eyes drifted around the room and Sherlock's lip quirked. He'd borrow John's gun, really it was his fault for not getting him another patch and leaving him unattended.

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><p>He noiselessly climbs up the stairs mentally taking note to avoid the creaking fourth and fifth steps and slowly grasps the knob twisting it, at about halfway the doorknob stuck. Sherlock blandly stared and let out a snort of contempt. Honestly, did John have so little faith in his at lock picking skills? He reached into his bathrobe pocket, pulled his set of pin and tumbler lock picks, and bent down choosing two from the set he got to work quickly and efficiently, he jiggles the picks and in a few seconds, there is a click. Four seconds, five seconds off the last time he had tried, but he could still do better. Sherlock quickly stands and opens the door letting it swing halfway as to not hit the wall, he pauses at the threshold and in a glance, survey's and mentally assesses the room.<p>

Meticulous as always, habits from the war he supposes–no, John doesn't have a problem with him being messy, the living room and kitchen is a testament to that it's just _his_ room he keeps in order. Could be an army habit but there was something more to it mostly, something from his childhood he files it away from later contemplation when he's bored enough to figure things out. John is very efficient in his morning ritual; his clothes for tomorrow are hanging on the wardrobe. It's one of his better jumpers, a steel grey wool that looks tolerable compared to the other items in his cupboard and a pair of dark trousers, he either has a date or someone he has to impress. Sherlock's eyes stray to the dresser next to window and he has got his expensive cologne out and Sherlock sneers, a date then. Honestly the cologne was wrong on John's skin, the scent foreign and invasive, it didn't suit the doctor, the smell of gunpowder and the hint of antiseptic and tea that wore itself in his skin—that was what suited him, not artificially crafted fragrance. He'd find a way to dispose of the offending article, John should not be allowed to make fashion choices, he never made good ones.

Sherlock's eyes strayed to the top drawer, three millimetre unclosed, a quarter shifted from its usual position. John, had opened it before bed. In the compartment are few of the items John cherishes. John he has observed in recent time is not a material person, values material objects very little but he still has a few that somewhat matter to him. His medals from the war, his journal, his dog tags, and his gun are the few he treasures and had resided in the bedside table. But due to recent developments John had taken to hiding his gun to keep it from Sherlock's fingers.

Which item had he touched?

The medals of war he scarcely touches, leaves them in the box pushed to the far end, so not them. The journal he touches on the days his limp returns, locks himself up and looks over the pages, the only time he will look at the pages, no limp today so not the journal–dog tags then. His eyes skirt where was the gun? Not in the wardrobe John wasn't that stupid, under his pillow? No, too dangerous. Sherlock inched forward. Where? Where did Joh–the floor creaks. Sherlock lowered his gaze to the wooden panel and he put his weight on it again, it made a low groan. The creak hadn't been there before, even then it would take in estimation five to six years with London's humidity and moisture index for the house to add to anymore of the usual creaking and groaning, excluding pipe damage and flooding which hadn't happened. Sherlock smirked he was both mildly insulted, and amused that John seemed to think so little of his deduction skills. The average person, how pitiful they truly were.

He bent down and gently pried the wooden panel up and let out a snort at the little sheet of stark white paper.

_Sherlock we have been over this, the gun is not a __**toy **__to use when you are bored. Seriously, Sherlock if you put more holes in our walls I will get you back. __**Do not test me**__._

Sherlock ignored the note and pushed it aside grabbing the gun; he replaced the board back in place and made for the door. Maybe he'd shoot at the ugly vase John had gotten from his last girlfriend, it wouldn't be the wall he was shooting at. There is a twitch of a smile ghosting this was why exact wording was so critical. He is edging out of the bedroom when he hears an odd sound.

Small barely perceptible noise—an audible whimper, he corrects.

Sherlock turns his head curiously and it returns a distressed, tiny little sound. The only place it would it would originate from with any fathom is John. The sound is odd, unusual. Does not fit the man that John is, the solider that John is, the sound is out of place, strange and bizarre.

_Interesting_.

He slowly drifts over to look at John's prone figure peering at the face of the doctor. When John is at rest his face does not have many lines or wrinkles; the tan from overseas is starting to fade bit by bit. Sherlock leans closer studying John's facial movements. Rapid eye movements under the lid, muscles are relaxed and body is lax, in the REM stage–vivid dreaming. The sound comes again wounded and painful–nightmare then. But about what? Had been looking at his dog tags before bed, the war? Maybe. He had recently gotten back into contact with his alcoholic sibling, a few messages and calls he'd noticed when he had borrowed his phone to antagonize the Yard (more so Lestrade and maybe a few to Anderson, that brain dead sod). Could be family tensions and war? Was it his new job? Sherlock tilted his head. What _was_ John's nightmare about? What did the man who enjoyed the thrill of the chase, the pleasure of the game, who felt animated and alive just as he did only in danger. Only in dark corners and crevices that festered with insanity and madness in London did he flourish, who was at peace and fit right alongside Sherlock in that darkness and thrived in it. What in his nightmares frightened him?

There is a fascinating puzzle beginning to be crafted before him.

There is a ripple of agony and terror that steals the expressionless face before him and John grits his teeth, his hands tighten on his sheet. There is another agonized groan that wretches itself from John's throat. The movement underneath his eyelids is inconsistent, his muscles are tightening and his body is tense–three to six seconds before John wakes up. Sherlock is out the door in seconds and down the stairs in four back on the couch in his stagnate and stationary position.

Sherlock closes his eyes.

There is silence.

Seven seconds later the floorboards creak and stop. _John is sitting up and has turned to place his feet over his bed. He's sighing now–no not sighing, putting his hands into his face, his shoulders are drawn up sharp, defensive and weary. He'll breath in deeply and exhaling in sharp breathes a couple of times and then John will take a minute or two before he'll get back into bed and then sightlessly stare at the ceiling until he's asleep again._

Five minutes later the ceiling creaks and the silence returns.

Sherlock's eyes open and fixes his gaze on a spot above him. There is a puzzle now, threaded and deeply weaved and he wants to unravel it with his fingers, pick it apart and study all of it, all the parts, broken and flawed festering with dark memories. Sherlock wants to take John's mind apart pick at all the scabs and wounds in there; he wants to study all of John Watson.

* * *

><p>Sherlock proceeds in his investigation. In the next few days, he notes down the changes in a dairy. On the first day after the incident, John goes about his morning routine as usual but there is a tension in John, his movements are stilted and wary but he continues about his day. When John returns from the practice and the day drags on he does not start to prepare for his date, instead he makes himself a cup of tea and stays near Sherlock. Odd. Nevertheless, the fact that John has managed to keep steady and calm throughout the day indicates it is not a newly occurring phenomenon. They have been co–inhabiting for seven months now, so it is not a recent development, did it start after the war? Or childhood?<p>

More information required.

"John?" Sherlock calls from his position in the kitchen on the table as he tinkers away with his chemistry supplies.

"Yes?" John answers offhandedly while pecking away on his laptop his attention entirely consumed on the screen before him.

"Not going out this evening?" the consulting detective questioned.

"No."

Sherlock hummed and continued adjusting his microscope. "Date stand you up?"

The hands on the keyboard stilled, John turned to stare at him. "What? How did you k–" he paused and shook his head. "Stupid question and no I cancelled wasn't really in the mood."

He pressed his eye to the ocular lens. "I'm glad you are aware of your stupidity if only everyone would be aware of their own the world would be better off and I wouldn't have to waste my valuable time."

There's a snort. "Arrogant git," John mutters as he resumes his typing.

Not in the mood for interaction but fine with him he writes in his book, is he perhaps a comfort zone for John? Interesting. It makes sense he supposes, John does not have many people he trusts. Despite his exceedingly polite and affable outward nature he has very few bonds, in fact uses his politeness and friendless as mechanism to keep others at a distance. Therefore, the strongest relationship is the one John has with him so being a safe area is sensible. On the second day John is back to his usual self, fast recovery time.

And, then Sherlock notices the pattern, the nightmares usually occur two to four times in the week. John conceals it well if he had not been observing he never would have noticed. He leans to the hypothesis that nightmares are not a recent development but instead have been happening for many years and John has adapted to them. The question still unrelentingly prods at him _what does John dream about?_

* * *

><p>Then he has to push his analysis and the study of John Watson to a corner in his mind for later observation and deduction. There is a <em>case<em> that brings an ecstasy; a sweet and seductive thrill and he lets it consume him, pushes everything irrelevant away and submerges himself.

The victim is approximately a 22 years old male. Articles of clothing containing the local university's name–university student and judging by the faint hint of resin on his fingers, residue paint underneath his nails and the fiber; fine squirrel hair on his nightgown an art student. Sherlock let his eyes stray from the body and glance around the room critical and assessing.

John and Lestrade end up near the wall watching Sherlock curiously, both having learned that it was better to let Sherlock be at a crime scene. "Been a terror?" Greg questions.

There is a long-suffering sigh filled with weariness and hint of fond exasperation, John rolls his eyes. "He ran out of body parts in the morning I was afraid that he'd throw a tantrum and destroy the flat. Sherlock is better off occupied when he gets bored, everyone feels the affects of it."

Lestrade cracks a smile. "Better you than all of London, honestly he's better off with you."

John raises his eyebrow. "Sacrificing me for the greater good, you sod?"

"Also long as it keeps Sherlock from terrorizing my department and me, yes." The detective inspector relies instantly. John shakes his head but there is a blooming smile. Lestrade leaves it unsaid that everyone was better off once Sherlock had found John, there wasn't as much of a biting hostility to him anymore. Lives had gotten easier for everyone since John had come around including Sherlock's own. There is a huff, Greg lets his eyes fall on Anderson, and he could physically see the peace and silence run out the room. Bloody Hell this was going to get nasty.

"Why is he even here? It's a typical natural cause death," Anderson states loudly. Sherlock ignores him and continues scooping the room. Anderson sneers. "Not everything and everybody is twisted as _you_."

Lestrade covered his face trying to shield himself from the coming blowout. John merely watched the interaction; Sherlock didn't need defending against Anderson and honestly it was amusing to see Anderson's face turn splotchy.

Sherlock paused and slowly turned to face Anderson, he leered down at him. "And everyone isn't brain dead as you. I've been called because this isn't the first one now is it?" His eyes turned to regard the detective inspector. "It's the fourth."

Greg let his hand drop and nodded. "It is."

Sherlock's face morphs into a mask of abhorrence and repugnance. "We're all of deprived oxygen at the time of your births? Did the umbilical cord wrap around your necks? You waited until the forth murder to get me involved?"

Lestrade tenses. "M–Murders?" he stutters.

"Serial ones at that," Sherlock says sweetly and happily as he smirks.

Anderson rolls his eyes. "It's natural cause, it isn't a murder."

The loathing and revulsion deepen into the lines of Sherlock's face. "How the feeble minded disgust me, tell me how long has he been dead?"

"Recently, 30 minutes the least to an hour," Anderson recites positively gloating.

"Wrong," Sherlock says with arrogant smirk. "Sometimes it astonishes me that no one has ever thought to correct the mistake that is your existence."

Anderson's face flames with indignity and anger, he stalks up to Sherlock and snarls. "What was that you f–"

"Anderson!" the crime scene technician whirls to look at his superior.

"But boss, he–" he tries.

"I don't care. Back off." Lesterade states coldly and bluntly. Anderson growers and gives Sherlock a spiteful and unpleasant glare before he turns heel and leaves. Lestrade glances up skywards and shakes his head before turned to look back at the self-proclaimed consulting detective. "How long as he been dead Sherlock?"

There is snarky-biting reply. "What? Now you suddenly require my input?"

"Oh for the l–" Greg shoots John a helpless look, pleading for aid.

"Sherlock," John coaxes calmly finally stepping into the conversation. "How did you get that? I'd like to hear your deductions." Sherlock raised his chin haughty read to ignore the request. John smiled encouragingly. "Please?"

No one says anything Sherlock merely looks at John and the doctor looks steadily back at him.

"Fine," Sherlock responds as he whirls his coat in a fury and walks around the room throwing out his finding. "The body has been dead for 3 weeks."

Lestrade's eyes shoot open. John frowned and he wandered closer to the body, tugging at his gloves as he bent down to observe the body. "Three weeks?!" Lestrade exclaimed.

"Yes, three weeks. Downstairs I glanced at the mail; the latest mail was addressed to him three weeks ago."

"But he could have just forgotten." Greg tries to grasp at anything floundering.

Sherlock snorts. "Unlikely, he's the type of person to do things instantly, he organizes his mail, has slots prepared beforehand, the month previous to this is all chronologically order so is this but it suddenly stops three weeks ago. He also has the habit of when waking up to tear the calendar sheet on the dresser, and toss it to the trash by his bed. Each day is accounted for; he stopped doing that three weeks ago. In addition, his phone has been charging for the past three weeks you can check the date under the battery settings. You can call down to the university; he's an art student there and hasn't shown up for class in three weeks and he isn't bunking off he enjoys his classes, loves them in fact."

Greg covered his mouth. "But how, the body doesn't smell, he hasn't rotted. It's been three weeks! There should be something, the smell would be unbearable!"

John glances and makes eye contact with Sherlock. "He's right, Sherlock there isn't even a sign of biological death, and there isn't even a stage of any sort of _mortis_."

Sherlock's smile is gleeful and maniacal. "It is magnificent isn't it John? We've been here for more than an hour and _pallor mortis _isn't present. He was given something, orally or injected but I lean towards orally there isn't sign of a struggle, no marks on his hands and he isn't a junkie. Whatever was given to him was a new form of drug that stopped the decaying process but killed him at the same time, something that has never been seen or recorded, entirely unknown. Its preservation, a type I never come across, never heard of, never seen! Do you see?" There is a light, glowing brighter and brighter in his eye as he continues and Sherlock is animated and alive. "He was poisoned, just like everyone else."

Everyone turned to look at the body. The victim is a young adult, handsome most would say with fine crafted face that one would stop and look at. Porcelain and alabaster skin that is flawless and stretches finely over his face; his features are beautiful and elegantly formed, high prominent cheekbones and a finely pointed nose. A sharp striking face, his hair is dark, an impossible stark dark black that draws even more attention to him. That is not what anyone in the room is focusing on.

It is his lips, which draw attention. His blooming red lips pull upwards into a smile. A serene, tranquil, and peaceful smile; motionless and unmoving on his face, the unearthly calm expression of bliss and happiness, unnatural in all its beauty and at the same moment frightening and uncomfortable. John turns to look at Lestrade. "Did everyone look like him?"

The detective inspector does not need further explanation, he already is aware of what John is asking. After a minute, he replied thickly, "_Yes_."

In merely seconds, there is a flurry of movement and everything blurs to life. Lestrade has his phone to his ear, and the crime scene is bustling.

Sherlock smiles indulgently, childish and carefree. "Serial murders, John," he whispers softly, revered and awed. "_Is it not lovely?_"

John's throat bobs uncomfortably and he tears his gaze from Sherlock instead looking at the sheet. Sherlock does not notice the sudden silence instead; he is already briskly walking away demanding access and locations of bodies. John watches his back disappear and runs his fingers through his hair, slowly getting up from kneeling before the body. He ignores the prickle in his mind, a creeping doubt and forces it away; they have more important matters to attend with and given Sherlock's lack of self-preservation, he had better be prepared.


End file.
